


Steep

by Preble



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Pining, Pre- and Post-Timeskip, Slow Burn, no beta we die like Glenn, plot noncompliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-02-16 11:10:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21506935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Preble/pseuds/Preble
Summary: War, growth, loss and connection as told through tea and other vices.
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 16
Kudos: 116





	1. Interview

After the first scheduled teatime, Garreg Mach buzzed with speculation. In present memory, none in attendance could remember the last time a faculty member and a student joined for afternoon tea in the gardens, alone, without cause for alarm or curiosity.

Maybe it’s a romantic tryst, Manuela gushed over her bowl of turnip stew. Shamir wrinkled her nose in doubt and disinterest.

I bet it’s an academic intervention, wagered Lindhart airily.

Maybe it’s a threat, Bernadetta groaned, retreating into the hood of her sweatshirt.

But when Marianne was cornered shortly after her tea with the mysterious new professor, she didn’t have the air of someone who’d been lambasted for slipping grades or swooning like a breathless maiden.

No, when Ignatz was nominated to grill her about the proceedings of her tea, he reported back to the class that she’d simply said “it was nice.” He did not testify to the way that her eyes, normally clouded and desolate, seemed a shade brighter after leaving the terrace.

When Leonie was invited to tea a few days later, the speculative murmuring rekindled anew. Surely, the cloud of gossip reasoned, Leonie would give a more detailed testament.

Onlookers didn’t know what to make of Leonie when she left the tea time disheartened and pensive. When Raphael inquired over dinner later that night, she glumly admitted to attacking the professor on the grounds that she didn’t fully appreciate the privilege of being Jeralt’s daughter, only to be rewarded with the promise of being invited to train with the two of them the following weekend.

The peanut gallery was taken aback when the first student outside of the Golden Deer was taken to tea. Firsthand accounts of Sylvain’s teatime with Byleth attested that it began predictably enough – women readily recognized the wolfish grin under a thick layer of smarm, commending her cool deflection. Spectators could only conjecture the direction their conversation took when Sylvain’s grin hardened and turned bitter. Within ten minutes their tea had adjourned, and the next morning Sylvain was spotted in the first row of the Golden Deer common room, fifteen minutes early for Byleth’s morning lecture.

Within a week and a half of the initial teatime with Marianne, all of the Deer and a handful of Eagles and Lions had been treated to tea with professor Byleth. All save for Claude, who by that point could feign neither ignorance nor disinterest. After gently needling his classmates for details about their meetings, the only commonality between them seemed to be that the conversations were unsurprisingly student-directed. Tactical and combat genius though she may be, the new professor was not famed for her conversational artistry and tended to let her partners do most of the talking.

What she lacked in extroversion she compensated in bizarre, intangible charisma. No matter the course or outcome of the teatimes, each participant emerged slightly changed. Results varied in extremity from the barely-noticeable lightening of the shadows under Marianne’s eyes to the Sylvain’s monastery-shaking house conversion, but still, the change was always there.

Seeing her cumulative effect on the class through these meetings did nothing to dampen his curiosity in the new professor. When it seemed that every student and half the faculty of the Officer’s Academy had been subjected to an interview with the new professor and his exclusion was becoming a point of contention, Claude was finally held back after a Friday morning seminar.

She bade him join her for tea with the same thoughtlessness as one commenting on the weather. He accepted with the same nonchalance, leaving with a wink and a wave even as his pulse thrummed with relief and anticipation. Onlookers would have described him as the picture of confidence and ease as he strode to the tea garden had they not known he’d spent the afternoon restlessly prowling the grounds only to arrive to their meeting a full hour early. None would have suspected the steady pounding in his temple as he reclined in the wrought iron chair and settled into a book, nor would they have realized that, though he turned pages at regular intervals, his eyes bored unblinkingly through the center of the book while he maintained careful surveillance through his periphery.

Finally, _finally,_ the clatter of fine china caught Claude’s attention. He watched Byleth meander the cobbled walkway through the corner of his eye, tea service balanced carefully in one hand and a tray of biscuits in the other. She ambled up the stream of students who bobbed around her, offering help and greetings that she deflected and returned with curt nods and dry one-word responses. Claude feigned engrossment with his book until she thrust the tray of pastries under his nose with a clatter.

“Thank you for taking the time to meet today, and for arriving early,” she greeted flatly, setting the teapot and cups on the table with more care. “Help yourself.”

He set his book aside, opening his posture and grinning in a display of peace. “Afternoon, Teach. Cheers,” he offered, selecting a cookie that was cobbled with sesame seeds, dotted with a pool of jam in the center. “Allow me the honor of pouring your tea?”

“Sure.”

He smoothly poured into the teacups, noting the soft yellow color and earthy floral aroma. Passing her a cup, Claude toasted his drink to his companion, cocking his head congenially. “Chamomile, huh. A favorite of yours?”

She took her own cup, wrapping pale fingers around the warm porcelain. “I don’t know. Tea is a luxury on the road, I’d never had much until I got here. I like this one well enough.”

He hummed thoughtfully and took a sip. The water was still too hot, and the tea had been steeped for too long, giving it a medicinal bitterness that would make Lorentz bristle. The thought had Claude smirking into the rim of his cup.

“Do you like it?”

“Hm?” He looked up from his tea to meet her impassive stare.

“You smiled. Do you favor this kind of tea?”

“Ah, sure. It’s one of my faves,” he smarmed. He took a moment to chew his cookie, relishing in the crunch of the sesame seeds between his teeth. “How’d you know I like chamomile?”

She shrugged. “Just a guess. A lot of people under stress prefer it for its soothing quality.”

_Huh._

Claude took another sip, gears spinning. “So this is a wellness check, then? I’m flattered, Teach, but not to worry – I’m the picture of relaxation. Unless it’s an academic intervention?”

“No, your grades are impeccable as always.” Byleth set her tea down and selected a chocolate sable, nibbling the corner while Claude stewed in his curiosity. “As you’re no doubt aware, I’ve been meeting each of the students individually, both as a means of getting to know them and to better gauge the interests and values of the class.”

“I had noticed! I was beginning to wonder if I was the only Deer exempt from a student-teacher date.”

“I’ve been saving your interview for last.”

Claude smirked into his teacup. “Only natural, saving the best for last.”

She set the half-eaten cookie in her saucer and cupped her cheek, calculating. A lesser man may have squirmed under her evaluating gaze, but he’d long outgrown discomfort under discerning or judgmental stares. All the more reason to be stunned each time she _did_ throw him off kilter.

“In truth, I worried how we would get along.”

He didn’t drop a beat, no matter how surprising the confession.

“Teach, I thought we got along famously!” He gasped, clutching at imaginary pearls.

“You get along famously with everyone, save for Lorentz,” she amended as he began to protest. “You could charm the wings off a wyvern if you needed to.”

“Why Teach, you flatter me.”

“It as an observation, not a compliment,” she plowed on, impervious to his silvered banter. “The point is, I worried that we could never establish a real connection in a way similar to your classmates. You’ve told me more than once that I’m stoic and difficult to read, and I hope to improve with time. And though you label yourself an outcast, I think much of it, at least within the confines of the monastery, is self-imposed.”

Claude’s grin nearly faltered, but the slight narrowing of his eyes was beyond control. “Forgive me, I don’t follow. Can you elaborate?”

“Like that,” she explained, waving an absent-minded hand. “Just now. I can barely tell, but I made you angry. You work exceptionally hard to mask what you’re feeling, and between that and me being… well, the way I am, I feared that we’d never begin to understand each other. The withholding of honest thoughts and emotions would make it hard for anyone to form a meaningful relationship, no matter how charming or quick of tongue.”

This time Claude let the easy smile slip from his face. “You know, Teach, it’s pretty traditional for strategists to play their cards close to their chests. You should understand that more than most.”

“True enough,” she relented. “But you take it a step further. It’s to the point where I can never assume to know what’s on your mind. On a strategic and human level, it’s important to have confidantes who you can be open with, for contingencies and support.”

“And you’re suggesting I present my soft, squishy underbelly to all of my classmates? To you?” He prodded, teasing tone belying genuine curiosity to the question.

“Not necessarily. Just think about it.” She took a deep breath, seeming to age suddenly. “Someday you’ll have subjects who will be trusting you with their safety, their livelihood, their freedom. Your peers deserve at least a fraction of that same trust.”

For the first time since they’d met, Claude was at a loss for words. He steepled his fingers together and surveyed her over them, wondering if she’d buckle under his stare.

Of course she wouldn’t. Byleth met his gaze evenly, lilac eyes wide and honest.

He took and released a mighty breath, raising his hands in surrender. “I’ll give it a shot. And I’m sorry, it wasn’t my intent to be insincere. Where I come from, that degree of openness is taught to be a dangerous vulnerability.”

“Bonds like that are an asset, not a vulnerability. Even among my mercenary group, those that grow to view colleagues as brothers-in-arms are stronger for it. They fight differently. More driven.” She mused, her typically clinical demeanor softening with something bordering sentimentality.

He smirked, leaning forward in his chair. “Now _there’s_ something I’d never expect to see, our good old prof getting borderline sentimental over such a touchy-feely subject. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve heard you speak so much in one sitting, even in class,” he teased with a wink.

To his great delight she finally responded to his antics, chewing on her bottom lip and dropping her gaze, if only for a second. “I’ve given it a lot of thought. Speaking like this… it’s hard for me. I’ve been preparing for a long time. I needed this talk to go well.”

If she didn’t have his attention before, she certainly had it now.

“Oh?”

She met his gaze once more, her usual owlish regard momentarily backlit with a spark of curiosity.

“We’re going to be working closely this year, and in order to be successful, we both have to open up.”


	2. Victory

Everything hurt, from the crown of her head to the likely broken toe on her left foot.  
  
Victory at the Battle of the Eagle and Lion was not achieved by a wide margin. The moment the horns sounded to indicate the end of the mock battle Ignatz fell to his knees in the dirt, Hilda emitted the longest whine in Fódlan's history, and even Felix, with whom Byleth had been engaged five seconds before, let his blade fall to the ground with a clatter and bent double, his chest heaving for breath.  
  
When the house leaders and professors reconvened at the top of the hill and awaited the verdict, Byleth's stomach twisted. She was unable to tell how the team fared overall while embroiled in combat; though she did her best to survey and manage her troops, she'd left much of the tactical decision-making to Claude. Out of the corners of her eye she'd seen Raphael engaging Dedue, felt more than heard each roaring with exertion under each other's titanic blows. She saw the miraculous arc of Ashe's training arrow as it soared through the air and struck Lysithea, who finally fell after her Herculean efforts took down four other students. She'd seen the flash blue hair as Marianne threw herself in harm's way to deflect a curse from Hubert, about to get the drop on Hilda.  
  
They’d not been without casualties, to be sure, but overall the Deer outperformed Byleth’s modest expectations. Weeks of vigorous training and a couple of school-appointed mission did not a seasoned veteran make, but all of her students were a far cry from the bloodless youths that blanched and vomited after their first kills in the Red Canyon.  
  
Sure, the mock battle never put any of them in real danger, but the adrenaline coursing through their veins wouldn’t know the difference. As long as she got the results she wanted, and the desperate streak kept her students alive, she couldn’t give two figs whether they won the mock battle.  
  
Or, so she thought. But when Jeralt turned to the house leaders, their professors, and the swatch of battered students gathering at the base of Gronder Hill to announce that the Golden Deer had taken the day, Byleth found that she cared. She cared when Claude, flashing a dazzling smile, clapped her on the back and beckoned his classmates to the top of the hill into a celebratory pile. She felt a stir of pride when the house leaders set their political differences aside long enough to plan a reconciliatory feast. She felt that same flicker of gratification smolder into kindling when Jeralt clapped her on the shoulder during the march back, pulling alongside her.  
  
“Well done. Hard to believe those are the same brats we met back in Remire.” His voice was gruff and impassive as ever, but Byleth knew well enough to see the warmth in it, like a vein of quartz through muddy shale.  
  
She made an affirmative noise in the back of her throat. “They’re improving. We still have a long way to go.”  
  
“Even still, the smart money was on the Adrestian girl. You’ve done good work with the kids, pulled off an unlikely win.”  
  
What may have been an off-the-cuff comment on her teaching from someone else was glowing praise from Jeralt. Byleth raised an eyebrow to her father, unsure of what to say.  
  
They walked together in comfortable silence for a spell. She listened closely, hoping to hear the train of his thoughts over the gravel crunching beneath their feet.  
  
“I think some celebrating is in order.” He mused, as much to the skies and the ground as Byleth. She looked up at him, not quite smiling, but as close as she was going to get. “I heard mention of a feast? Think everyone deserves it after the battle.”  
  
She nodded, drifting a mite closer to her father as they walked along. “All of the houses are celebrating. They’re going to need help in the kitchens if they hope to keep up, everyone will be hungry.”  
  
His broad hand came to rest on the back of her head, rumpling her hair affectionately. “Count me in. Nothing we haven’t handled before.”  
  
She leaned into his touch. It was warm.  
  


* * *

  
  
No matter the course of battle, few things were more reliable than a voracious appetite after a hard fight. Byleth and Jeralt always knew to expect this and prepared adequately, doubling down on kitchen duty to reward and revive spent troops. Their efforts were always rewarded in kind with loyal mercenaries who bounced back quickly and repaid their gratitude in jobs finished quickly and efficiently.  
  
The same couldn’t be said for the students of Garreg Mach. Most had grown up in the lap of luxury and came to expect prompt service, unending platters of food of high caliber. Compounding their already high expectations with fatigue and varying degrees of puberty, the students’ appetites seemed without end, keeping the kitchen staff and volunteers’ noses to the grindstone.  
  
Not that Byleth minded. She’d far prefer her current station, elbow-deep in cold dishwater next to Jeralt, to the rabble of the great hall. If she was lucky, she’d be able to pass the evening in her father’s quiet company until the students finally dispersed to their beds; maybe by then the healers will have finished mending the student body and she’d get an opportunity to have her foot and bruises looked at.  
  
She, Jeralt and the kitchen staff worked methodically through the mountain of dishes generated preparing for the feast, and in between scrubbing pans and dishes Byleth took stock of her injuries and catalogued the battle. Passing a cast-iron skillet down the line, she rolled her shoulders experimentally; her upper arm twanged in protest where Bernadetta’s nervous shot grazed her tricep. Had the sniper’s quaking breath and hands not betrayed miraculous stealth, she may have landed the chest shot as intended. A fleet of glasses came next and she breathed deeply while she rinsed, feeling a bruise blooming in her lower back behind her kidney; Claude’s warning shout had only barely granted enough time to throw herself from Dorothea’s Thoron, and even then the unclean landing had rolled her into a rock. Dorothea’s casting speed had been refined considerably since they’d last sparred – she’d have to warn her own students. By the time Byleth had compartmentalized most of the battle and was filing the last of her injuries – a broken toe or two, gifted by Felix as he tried to deflect her kick with the butt of his sword (she’d have to redouble her campaign efforts to sway him to her seminars) – when the kitchen door swung open. She didn’t bother to look up until a familiar voice pulled her from her soapy pensieve.  
  
“Ah, there you are, Teach! Evening, Captain Jeralt.”  
  
Jeralt huffed his greeting to Claude, loping toward the sinks. Byleth nodded her acknowledgement before returning to her work.  
  
“We were wondering where you’d gone off to,” he mused. “Wondered what could be keeping our fearless leader from her army’s celebratory feasting.”  
  
“Providing for the celebratory feasting,” she answered simply, gesturing to the cleanup assembly line.  
  
He chuckled, shaking his head. “So I see. And we’re all eternally grateful for your many services – but, Captain Jeralt, with your permission,” he turned to the mercenary, a respectful tilt to the head. “I’ll be happy to relieve the professor of her remaining dish duties in the interest of allowing the class to celebrate as a unit.”  
  
Jeralt regarded the lordling down the bridge of his nose (long, crooked by an old break, messily healed). His eyes traced then to Byleth, assessing: _do you want this?  
  
_Byleth blinked, inclining her shoulders in a microscopic shrug.  
  
Her father huffed and slung a dry rag from his shoulders, offering it to Byleth. “Granted. We’re just about done here.”  
  
Claude grinned, watchful. “Much obliged, Captain Jeralt. I’ll take it from here.  
  
“I don’t think so,” Jeralt warned. “I’ve gotten enough flack from trying to make future world leaders contribute to dish duty. Go eat with the class.”  
  
Even busied with the task of drying her arms, Byleth caught the way Claude’s smirk turned brittle. She watched him expectantly.  
  
“Ah, but that’s the trouble with nobility, isn’t it? Some have gotten it into their heads that they’re above contributing to the greater good.” He cocked his head into something between a tilt and a shallow bow. “Thank you for sparing the extra hands, I’ll be sure to pay it forward.”  
  
She handed the rag to Jeralt, whose brow was sloping into a beleaguered shape. He sighed through his nose, tossing the towel back over his shoulder.   
  
“Good luck out there.”  
  
Her mouth flattened into a grim line, and she nodded before allowing Claude to lead her past the sinks, the ovens and the work stations and out of the kitchens.  
  
As soon as the heavy kitchen door opened a wall of sound met Byleth. Tinkling of silverware, clanking of goblets, voices laughing, sighing, arguing, whooping and hollering all mixed while celebrating their triumphs and defeats. The sound was loudest at the center of the great hall where a number of tables had been pushed together and representatives from each house met in a multicolored swatch, squabbling over the results of the mock battle but still dining together all the same. From the middle of the pile she could see the Golden Deer being thumped on the back, their tankards of cider being toasted, spilled and refilled with great enthusiasm. Raphael caught her eye and his face split into a toothy grin, and he raised his flagon to her.  
  
“Professor! Over here!” He boomed. Byleth entertained the thought to flee for an endless millisecond before the students zeroed in on her like a pride of lions cornering a water buffalo. Even as she began to pivot in the other direction a cheer erupted from the Deer and she felt Claude’s hand between her shoulder blades, heard him tut sternly.  
  
“Ah ah ah, don’t think you’re getting off that easy, Teach,” he scolded from behind her left ear, guiding her towards the table. “Your audience awaits.”  
  
And so they were, faces shining and eyes crinkled from smiling too hard. A seat was cleared between Sylvain and Marianne, and a goblet and plate of food passed around in short order. All around her students were cramming themselves nearer to her, and one traitorous voice raised above the rest demanding a speech.  
  
It was her own personal hell on earth.  
  
They watched her expectantly, some shining with admiration and others with critical patience. Byleth grabbed her goblet and pondered it momentarily before raising it in a toast.  
  
“Keep up the good work.”  
  
The homily was met with deep groans and boisterous laughter. Across the table Leonie scoffed, shrugging her shoulders.  
  
“Classic professor. We fought our hearts out for this victory, and all you’ve got is ‘keep it up’,” she lamented.  
  
“I think it’s the right sentiment!” Lysithea argued. “Our victory should compel us to work harder, not slack off.”  
  
Sylvain shook his head. “Sweet summer child,” he patronized. “Someday when you’re older you’ll know the value of a well-rested army. A loyal one, brimming with pretty girls. Watered with, well…” he sloshed the contents of his tankard. “Something a little stronger than this.”  
  
Hilda sauntered around the table and wedged herself into the bench next to Claude, helping herself to his flagon. “You know, Sylvain, for the first time I’m inclined to agree with you. Say, professor,” she crooned, leaning coquettishly across the table. “Whaddyousay we spring for something a little stronger? I think we’ve earned it.”  
  
“That’s a funny way of thanking her for outfitting us with the best equipment that her stipend can afford,” drawled Claude, propping an elbow on Hilda’s shoulder. “And don’t for a second pretend that it didn’t make a difference, you couldn’t have torn across the field to rip Hubert a new asshole if you’d been lugging around your heavy old axe.”  
  
Hilda rolled her eyes, ignoring the cheer that rippled through the Deer. “I don’t think so, mister man. All of the magical weapons in the armory aren’t going to make a soldier out of me. Besides, we all know that Raph and Lysithea did all of the heavy lifting.”  
  
The mountain of blonde down the table grinned, flexing commemoratively. Lysithea waved a dismissive hand, her albino face pinking with poorly-disguised pleasure.  
  
“Well, I wouldn’t have had the chance to cast so many spells if the archers weren’t buying me time,” she riposted, trying not to look too pleased. Ignatz immediately shook his head, vigorously enough to jar the glasses on the bridge of his nose.  
  
“I don’t think so, I just got a couple lucky shots. That must have been Claude and Leonie.”  
  
Leonie tilted her head, thoughtful. “Probably wasn’t me, I wound up burning half the battle keeping Ingrid away from Lorentz and the professor.”  
  
Lorentz, thrilled to have his heroics woven into the dialogue, leaned in. “And it was only due to your dedication that I, Lorentz Hellman Gloucester, was able to carry the day. Why, had it not been for your deflection, I may have not been able to fell Ferdinand, Dedue and Petra.”

Leonie snorted indelicately into her drink. “Please, Lorentz. Dedue was on his last legs after Raph got to him, and Petra and Ferdinand covered in the chalk from Claude’s training arrows. Come to think of it, Claude, I barely saw you for the whole fight.”  
  
“Yeah, but I could always hear him,” Raphael interjected. “Telling me who to punch next or when a mage was getting too close. Annette woulda had me if he hadn’t been watching my back.”  
  
“I was on the backburner. Had to keep an eye on the flock, you know?” Claude glossed airily.  
  
“It was the weirdest thing, though,” Hilda argued. “Being able to hear you constantly but not seeing you. Creeped me out. Felt like I was always being watched, reminded me of Holst.” Claude pinched her cheek and she slapped at his hand.  
  
“Aww, Hild, I’m flattered. You can call me your big bro whenever you want,” he gushed, and Hilda feigned retching into her goblet.

Byleth watched the flattery, boasting and deflecting ping pong across the table drily. Marianne’s quiet company at her side was like an oasis in the cacophony of noise and heat and bodies mashed together at the table, and she leaned to address her without drawing any attention to themselves.  
  
“Thank you for your hard work today,” Byleth whispered. “A lot of your classmates would have fared far worse if you hadn’t been nearby.”  
  
“It was nothing,” Marianne defected. “I barely helped offensively.”  
  
“Maybe,” Byleth admitted. “But in the end it was a battle of attrition, and we outlasted the rest because of your efforts.”  
  
The girl fell silent, either too deep in thought or too embarrassed to respond. After a moment of comfortable silence, she commented: “Professor. You haven’t been to a healer yet, have you?”  
  
Byleth raised an eyebrow and asked, not unkindly: “Why?”  
  
“Claude told me to heal you a few times in battle, but you kept directing me to the others. And you’ve been in the kitchens ever since, preparing for the feast, so I couldn’t heal you afterward, either…”  
  
She blinked, letting her eyes wander down the bench where Claude was pantomiming an animated recollection of Ignatz and Bernadetta’s titanic showdown. His head barely tilted, and though his eyes never met hers directly she knew he could feel her gaze on the side of his face.  
  
“No, I haven’t been to a healer yet.”  
  
“Oh. Um, allow me.”  
  
Her hands, folded anxiously in her lap, opened under the table. In the chaos of the dinner none seemed to notice the healing glyph or the faint glow from the benches. Byleth let her eyes flutter shut, immensely grateful for the electric warmth that buzzed through her aching body and left it not unpleasantly fatigued. She curled her toes inside her shoes, relieved to find the break reduced to a dull throb. She offered a small smile to the girl, who returned it shyly, and saw Claude watching from the corner of her eye.  
  


_Thanks_ , she mouthed. He raised his flagon to her and drank deeply.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slaps torn, bloodied manuscript onto counter*  
> This fic aint dead, but I sure am. Nothing like a respiratory infection for mandated bed rest and writing time, though.
> 
> I'm not thrilled with this, but am happy to bridge the first chapter to the third (mostly finished, and with more meat and potatoes relationship development). Despite my initial misgivings with Byleth (didn't dig the hotpants or lack of dialoge), I'm really starting to love her as a protagonist.
> 
> Coming down the pike: cold tea and late-night fishing. Thank you for stopping by!


	3. Loss

_Snap, crack, clink._  
  
Remire was in flames. The sound of splitting wood, of ceilings crumbling into the flames’ hungry maw, bounced strangely through the thick soot air.  
  
_Snap, crack, clink._  
  
Even the cackles and screams of deranged townspeople struggled to cut above the din of a city falling apart at the seams. Proactive though they were, the Church of Seiros and the Golden Deer hadn’t arrived early enough to evacuate and save everyone. A manhunt was underway to locate the remaining survivors before they succumbed to the beasts, the heat, or their raving neighbors.  
  
_Snap, crack, clatter_.  
  
Claude’s sides burned with the town. The methodic, metallic cadence of the Sword of the Creator whipping to extension, finding its mark and whizzing back to the hilt danced infuriating at the edge of his hearing.  
  
_Snap, crack, clink.  
  
Roar_  
  
“Left!” Claude panted beneath his breath, rounding a corner around a crackling inn. A spray of cobblestones and cinder met him as he pivoted around the wall, sent flying by the thrashing tail of a beast. It strafed Byleth while she lashed unrelentingly, licking angry wounds into its neck, knees and underbelly. Claude slung his bow from his shoulder and readied two arrows, nocking one and taking aim just behind the eyes.  
  
“Hey!” He shouted, firing a first warning shot. The arrow clattered uselessly over the beasts’ shingled scales.  
  
_Perfect_.  
  
If only for a moment, the thing was distracted from Byleth’s onslaught. A fractional head turn was all that Claude needed; one motion to nock and release the second arrow and the thing hissed in pain, throwing its torso in a wide arc to face Claude. It crashed into the wall of the inn, shattering a pane of glass.  
  
A shriek slipped through the broken window, a child’s voice.  
  
The beast rounded again, this time for the promise of unresisting fright inside the inn. Claude swore under his breath and loosed another two arrows into the beast’s underarm which seemed to do little more than annoy it. The lashing tip of the Sword of the Creator drew welts across its backside, but the beast continued to ignore them in favor of clawing at the open window.  
  
Easier prey. Low-hanging fruit.  
  
“Claude, we can’t allow it to enter!” Byleth shouted, brows knit tight and mouth twisting into something approaching a snarl.  
  
“I know, I’m trying!” He bellowed, feathering the beast’s neck with the last of his arrows.  
  
It was an incomplete truth. Yes, he knew they had to save as many townspeople as possible. He frowned deeply at his empty quiver and drew his sword, circling around and putting himself between the beast and the whimpering prisoners on the other side of the wall.  
  
_She’s… angry? Why?_  
  
A wet steam of breath slicked the side of Claude’s face when the monster had enough of his antics. Narrowly ducking past its snapping maw, he drew his sword and, wrapping both hands around the hilt, threw his weight upward to wedge the tip of his sword into the intersection of its mandible and trachea. A whistling cry was all the warning he got before an ironclad intersection of scales locked the blade in place. Before he could react the demon threw itself sideways to escape, ripping the sword from Claude’s white-knuckled grip and tearing his shoulder from its socket.  
  
A howl slipped through his lips and a kaleidoscope of color erupted in his vision. His knees threatened to buckle beneath him and his ears filled with the beast’s agonized cries and an odd ringing. Somebody was saying his name.  
  
His back met the hard brick of the inn. Claude’s eyes flew open and he bit down on the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood, holding his breath long enough to be sure that he wouldn’t scream or faint. Once his vision cleared he could finally see Byleth, a mask of calm replacing her hackled fury while she quickly dispatched the suffering creature. By the time he’d forced himself through two measured breaths the thing was dead.  
  
“Claude.”  
  
He released a third puff of breath. His sword clattered to the ground at his feet.  
  
“Hey, Teach.”  
  
Her mouth was set in a grim line, lilac eyes roving the slumped curve of his misplaced shoulder. A smear of blood ran between her nose and her mouth.  
  
“Your nose, did it get you?” Claude wondered, his voice tight. Her mouth pursed.  
  
“You could have died.”  
  
Claude dimly registered a flare of annoyance around the pain as Byleth laid a light hand at the base of his neck and wrapped another around his forearm, pulling it straight at his side. His fingers were growing numb. “We stopped it from getting into the building, didn’t we? I’ll be fine.”  
  
She either didn’t hear or didn’t care to answer. The hands holding his shoulder and wrist had begun to shake.  
  
“I’m going to reset your shoulder. Take a deep breath and start releasing it when I say.”  
  
Claude’s did his best to keep his voice steady even while he wobbling legs betrayed him. “Woah, easy. Give me a second to –”  
  
“No. We’re not safe here, and the longer it stays out the harder and more painful it will be to reset.” Byleth’s hand slipped lower onto his chest to steady him against the wall. Claude dimly wondered if she could feel his heart’s frantic race to pump blood and adrenaline as quickly as possible. “I’ve done this before, try to relax.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Breathe in.”  
  
He sucked an almost-even breath between his lips, letting the air fill his belly.  
  
“Release.”  
  
As soon as Claude’s air began leaving him in a cold stream Byleth began to rotate his arm in small, firm circles. The dull throb began to spike as she slowly raised his arm, continuing to roll the joint next to the socket until his arm was nearly at shoulder height and _gods_ , the hot ache was focusing to a molten needle and he was out of air to exhale and –  
  
“Deep breath.”  
  
He choked on the next inhale.  
  
_Crack._  
  
“It’s in.”  
  
He blinked. An authentic grin wormed its way across his lips by way of heady relief.  
  
“Nice one,” he commended. She was only half listening while she dug through her pack for a length of bandages to fashion into a sling. “I shouldn’t be surprised by your font of knowledge by now, but you never struck me as the field medic type.”  
  
Her shoulders seemed to slump after she finished her work, tying a knot around his wrist so that it hung by his belly button. “I didn’t used to be,” she confessed, hovering a hand over his inflamed shoulder. “My father made sure each of his men knew how to splint a break, tourniquet a bleed-out, set a shoulder or ankle. Only the necessities.” Now her hand glowed with a soft light, a buzzing heat that soothed his torn muscles. “But I’ve been attending Manuela’s lectures since I started teaching with the hope I’d never wind up using it…”  
  
The light dimmed from her casting hand and Claude experimentally shifted his shoulder. His muscles creaked in protest, but the searing pain had cooled to a pulsing throb.  
  
“Thank you. Really.”  
  
She nodded. A stubborn knit slanted her brow, a thought almost visibly whirling in the sea glass of her eyes as they traced from his shoulder to his face.  
  
“What is it, Teach – ?”  
  
“Byleth?”  
  
“Claude, _finally!_ ”  
  
The voices called from two directions, one willowy from within the splintering inn and one equal parts concerned and irritated from the courtyard behind them. Byleth turned to the courtyard first, addressing Hilda while Leonie and Marianne shuffled to catch up.  
  
“Are you unhurt?” She asked of her students, tallying the girls’ negligible visible wounds.  
  
“I nearly _died_ when I turned around and found you missing, Claude!” Hilda fumed, ignoring her professor to round on him. “And what in the Goddess’s name happened to your arm?”  
  
He held up his good hand in palm-forward defense. “Nothing worth worrying about.”  
  
“We’re fine, professor. Ignatz and Lorentz have secured the shopping district, and Jeralt and the Knights are making their way to Tomas.” Leonie delivered her report evenly, despite the throttled grip on her spear and the slick of sweat running along her collarbone.  
  
“Good. Marianne?”  
  
Her report came shallowly, a farther cry from cool collection. “Th-the southern residential quarters have been evacuated. I healed the ones… the survivors, and they’ve been moved to safety.”  
  
“Good. Hilda, you and Claude evacuate the inn and the cooper’s next door. Marianne, see to them once they’re out, and keep an eye on Claude’s shoulder. Leonie, you and I will reconnect with the Knights in a moment.”  
  
Leonie and Marianne nodded, and Hilda turned back to Claude with a finger pointed at his chest.  
  
“Listen, Mr. Man, if you _ever_ ditch me on the battlefield I’ll take that bow of yours and shove it so far –”  
  
Claude held a finger to his lips, nodding to Byleth who turned towards the inn where an old woman waited in the doorway. Her tanned skin and salt-and-pepper hair were both mottled by a layer of ash from the building, and she favored one leg above the other when she made her way out of the building.  
  
“Byleth, my sweet thing,” the woman murmured, raising a hand to her cheek. “Thank you for coming.”  
  
Byleth frowned, leaning into her touch. “Of course. How many are left in the building?”  
  
“Just two families,” she began, choking on the third word and coughing a lungful of soot. Byleth’s grimace deepened and she patted a dusty hand on the woman’s back until she steadied herself. “Two families, one couple and another with two children. One of them took an armful of glass just now.”  
  
“It’s okay, my students are here to take care of them.”  
  
The woman managed a wan smile, catching one of Byleth’s hands between her two. “Of course they will, dear. But,” she paused, a thought crossing like a shadow over her face. “Where’s your father? Is he safe?”  
  
“Yes. He’s on the front line, I’m going to join him. I have to leave now,” Byleth soothed, wrapping her fingers around her hand. “We’ll be back to check on you when it’s over.”  
  
She beckoned the students over with a tilt of her head. “You know what to do. Let’s go, Leonie.”  
  
“Right!”  
  
She shouldered the Sword of the Creator and took off, Leonie trailing in her wake. Claude watched the two disappear into the smoke, making sure to don a reassuring grin for the Innkeeper and filing his many questions for later. For now, they had work to do.  
  


* * *

  
  
Claude stood motionless in front of the heavy oaken door. The tea service in hand had long since gone cold, along with the resolve that had driven him to bring it.

It wasn’t enough. Nothing he could say or do would fell their enemies, revive Jeralt, or save the doomed Remire townsfolk or transfigured students. He couldn’t begin to understand what she was going or offer meaningful advice, not like Sylvain or Dimitri. Each hitched breath that caught his ears sank his stomach further into the chilling ground.  
  
Wrapping a secure arm beneath the tray, he rapped a quiet cadence on the door. The thick wood reverberated achingly through his cold fingers.  
  
“Teach?”  
  
One, two, three, four beats of silence. He raised his hand to knock a second time, harder.  
  
“ _Professor._ ”  
  
Her answer was slow.  
  
“One moment.”  
  
He found himself holding his breath as the door unlocked and swung halfway open, Byleth lingering in its shadow rather than stepping out to meet him. Sconces lining the walls threw the planes of her face into sharp contrast, emphasizing valleys of fatigue beneath her eyes, red and swollen with crying. When she finally met his gaze Claude found her usual spark of curiosity extinguished, doused by a heavy glaze of aching exhaustion.  
  
He held the tea service forward as a gesture of good faith and to get a prop into the doorway. “Can I come in?”  
  
Her only answer was a slow admission through the doorframe, and as the heavy door clicked shut the two were plunged into darkness. Claude lingered in the entryway while his vision adjusted to the dark, listening to the soft padding of footfalls leading to the small table situated at the foot of her bed. Inky shapes emerged from corners of the room – the navy-on-black shadows of the bed, pristinely made and unlived in; a sable outline of a traveling chest, opened and unfilled; the sharp edges of paper sheaves, and a pen and inkpot on the desk.  
  
_You’re leaving_.  
  
The question – accusation – lodged in his throat. Picking his way across the floor, Claude set the tray down on the table and felt around for three handles to two cups and the teapot. He poured on faith, listening for the chime of liquid against porcelain and swearing when some sloshed from the cup onto the table.  
  
“Here.”  
  
A match scratched and flickered briefly to life, only to be sacrificed to an oil lamp. Its glow was kept low, casting deep shadows across the silhouettes of the teacups and across the unkempt hair hanging heavily across Byleth’s face. He passed a cup to her and found her fingers nearly as cold as the china.  
  
“It tastes like resin.”  
  
He cocked an eyebrow, watched her inspect the cup. “It’s pine tea. From hemlock trees near where I grew up. It’s, uh, better warm.”  
  
She hummed an acknowledgement and drew a longer sip. “I didn’t realize there were coniferous forests near Derdriu.”  
  
“I over generalized, they’re a little north of the capital.” Against his will he felt a wry smile crook his mouth. This wasn’t how the course of the evening was supposed to go; but then again, planning the course of their conversation was like plotting lightning strikes. “It’s a special occasion tea, usually saved for celebrations.”  
  
“Celebrations.” The flatness of her voice tinged with hurt.  
  
“In celebration of Jeralt, of his life.” He watched her carefully, noting the way her mouth twisted and her eyes narrowed. _It’s going to hurt before it gets better_. “The knights had a lot to celebrate him for during the service. Rhea, Alois, that woman from Remire. After you left she and Alois must have stayed and swapped stories for another hour at least!”  
  
Thankfully the hard line of her mouth softened. She pursed her lips and took another drink. “She… she helped him, when I was small. I stayed with her when my father had to take jobs, until I was old enough to travel with the company.”  
  
“What’s her name?”  
  
“Nora. She’d rather I call her ‘Granny’, though.”  
  
Claude evaluated the gang plank of the conversation and jumped before thinking better of it. “Will you rejoin her now?”  
  
When her eyes met his they were blown wide with dimness, the lightness of her irises waning like a late-month moon. A new edge to her pain stirred across her face, as though daring to hurt her further. “I don’t know. I…” Her words grew thick, clumsy. “I haven’t decided. Can’t decide.”  
  
_Don’t go_.  
  
“Then don’t,” he offered simply. “Lay low, sort it out. Just know that we’ll support you no matter the decision. You know I’m the most vocal supporter of a tactical retreat.”  
  
She turned the teacup in her hands, watching the dregs swirl around the bottom. “I’ll think on it.”  
  
“Good.” He winked and busied himself collecting the empty cups. “I’ve darkened your doorway long enough, about time I let you get some sleep.”  
  
“Wait.”  
  
The tea set clinked loudly in his hands. “Hm?”  
  
“Will you… Come fishing with me?”  
  
“Now?” He asked, puzzled. The pond fish were inactive at this hour, and fisherman were more likely to get horrific bug bites than a catch in the middle of the night.  
  
She nodded. “It’s not a good time for it, I know. But… I need it to be empty. I can’t see everyone.”  
  
Claude worked desperately to keep a surge of emotion off of his face. Smiling faintly, he clapped a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “You got it, Teach.”  
  
She didn’t return the smile, instead laying a grateful hand over his before leading him to the fishing pond. At this hour the cobbled walkways were nearly deserted save for the silent guards at the main doors, and the plaza that contained the fishing pond was desolate. Unfortunately the monk who dispensed fishing gear had long since gone to bed. Claude bade Byleth look away as he picked the lock to the storage shed (“don’t worry about it, I’ll lock up when we’re done” he’d soothed when she expressed tired disapproval). Two poles and a half bucket of snails later the two were seated on the cold, damp wood of the dock, clumsily baiting their lines in the dark.  
  
“Do fish sleep at night?” Claude wondered, casting his line and shattering the glassy surface of the pond. Byleth hummed thoughtfully and followed suit, casting with far more precision.  
  
“I’ve read that it depends on the fish. Some lie dormant in rock formations, or sea plants, some are more active at night.”  
  
“Maybe we’ll get lucky, then.”  
  
They did not get lucky. Before long the surface of the water stilled, broken only when Claude’s dangling feet skimmed the top. The two sat in contemplative silence, eavesdropping on the faraway conversations of woodland frogs and the monastery owls. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Byleth’s posture sink and her eyelids flutter, managing to maintain a hold on her fishing pole even as she tipped sideways and came to rest against his shoulder.  
  
Claude’s breath caught in his throat and he tilted his head to better see her face, a calm mask of half-sleep smoothing the anguish from her brow and finally granting rest to her spent eyes.  
  
“Hey,” he murmured. “Think it’s time to pack it in?”  
  
“No.” she hushed, slumping further into his shoulder.  
  
And he had no choice, really, other than to transfer his fishing pole to his left hand so that his right could steady her against his side (imagine the uproar if she were to fall into the pond and drown!). And nobody could fault him for remaining at the pond until the black of the nighttime sky began to lighten in the east – the poor professor looked like she hadn’t slept in days, any friend would do the same. As for his decision to rest his cheek against her hair, closing his own eyes and indulging in the rare moment of solitude and proximity, well, that could remain between the two of them.  
  
Only the dozing fish, the faint stars and the murmuring owls would bear witness to Claude as he turned his head a fraction, just enough that his lips scarcely met the crown of her head, and whispered:  
  
“Rest well, Byleth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
> Sending lots of love from furlough. I hope you're all well. Let me know what kind of food you're cooking, games you're playing and good/weird/trashy/indulgent literature you've found in quarantine.

**Author's Note:**

> This originally started as a series of bits and bobs vaguely connected by a loose thread of beverage themes. Only three chapters are written or drafted as of yet, so yet to be seen if the theme prevails the whole way through, but I anticipate five or six chapters when all is said and done. I may bump the rating depending on my level of self control in late chapters.


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